Cover design by Jason Pamental,
Cricket Meadow Designs.

There are many whose help and support were instrumental in bringing this venture about whom I would like to thank. The fee for research done on behalf of the Japan Center for International Exchange and the Center for Global Partnership made the trip possible, and Menju Toshihiro, the Program Officer at JCIE, also arranged accomodations for me in Hiroshima. Nagayasu Yukimasa, Professor at Reitaku University, invited me to lecture there and arranged for me to stay for free at the school's hotel. His wife Sachiko, and his daughter Mikako, befriended me. Tajima Hiroshi, instructor in Japanese at Brown University and my friend, spent long hours with me doing everything he could to help me learn the language. His efforts were heroic, but my inadequacies are not his fault. Nor are they the fault of Asako Phalon, another friend who also tried to enable the gaijin to converse in her native tongue.

Most especially am I indebted to my friend Takahashi Keiko, who was my constant companion, guide, intepreter, and teacher for nearly three weeks; and the entire Takahashi family, from Hachioji to Kawasaki to Kurikoma, who took me into their lives as well as their homes.

Along the way, a few new friends stand out for the special care they gave and the special memories they helped to create. Taniguchi Makiko, a high school student in Chizu, gave up two nights at a juku--cram school--to educate a gaijin--foreigner. Ito Kenji, a private school owner and teacher confined to a wheelchair with multiple sclerosis, gave me a first-hand demonstration of the meaning of courage. Miyagawa Kazuko of Yokohama, in dealing with the difficulties ofcreating a career after seeing her children grown, revealed to me the strength, tenacity, and dreams of a modern Japanese woman. And Ichimori Junko of Iga-Ueno, who unhesitatingly shared her table, her time, her tennis, and her dreams, astonished me with her extraordinary generosity, openness, and good humor.

Closer to home, two American friends were especially helpful. Randy DeSimone, a colleague, guitarist, and writer, was instrumental in helping me find the right perspective at the outset of the project, and Karen Yahara, co-owner/manager of the successful Japanese bookstore, Sasuga, in Cambridge, read the entire manuscript and made many perceptive and helpful comments. Two student departmental assistants, Joanne Lincourt and Jen Richard were also very helpful, and managed to remain cheerful in the face of many demands.

At home, my son Jason willingly and with good humor bore the burden of the summer chores I normally enjoy, despite his inability to derive the same pleasure from them as I do. He also helped design the book and taught me much about the computer. My son Matthew, busy with his doctoral studies, was happy to take the time, and able at a glance, to improve my writing.

My wife Marie is mentioned last because, no matter what I do, she is in my closing thoughts. Her response on hearing the idea for the trip was near autonomic, "Oh, of course you must go." Her support never wavered, and continued throughout this second phase with wise counsel and sharp editing. I can only marvel at my good fortune.

Japan is a very crowded country. In the same area as New York City, where there are ten million inhabitants, Tokyo has twenty million. In the New York Metroplitan area there are twenty million, but in the Tokyo metropolitan area there are over forty. Japan's total population, over 125 million, resides in a space smaller than the state of Montana. Although the actual land area exceeds that of California, it is a steeply mountainous country, with only about a fifth of its total area fit for farming, industry, and living. As a result, its habitable land has the highest population and production density in the world, by far.

What is striking about this is the fact that these crowded conditions do not create the kind of anger and violence in society that they do in other countries. Indeed, one remarkable characteristic of the Japanese is their civility, the ability of the ordinary Japanese to get along in such crowded conditions, to wait patiently in line, to wait for oncoming drivers to navigate the single lane, to cope with the bumping crowds, the stepped on feet, the spilled trays. What surprised me continually was the behavior of the Japanese in situations that, in other countries, would lead to harsh words, or even blows. Instead, I would see smiles and hear, "Daijoobu"--no problem, it's ok. From the very first day 'til the last, I heard that word, and it finally dawned on me that it was an important part of the Japanese character.That was a major discvery for me, and it became the major theme of this book.

The Japanese, despite their desire to believe otherwise, are much like people in other cultures in terms of their behavior. People all over the world are polite, say "Escuse me" and "Thank you." People from many countries try not to embarrass others in public. The cultures of many countries give preference to males and revere their ancestors. What is different about the Japanese is the degree to which they institutionalize, and ritualize, these characteristics.

In the case of "daijoobu," I think this is important. The country is so crowded, people are jammed together so tightly (there are "pushers" during subway rush-hour who lean against passengers to push them into the already packed trains), and have so little privacy that there is great need of a salve, a balm, an oil to soothe. "Daijoobu" helps to serve that purpose.

A second theme concerns the way people treated and befriended me. I expected to have a good time in Japan, but I did not know how good. Nor did I know how much I would be affected by my visit, how much I would be moved by the warmth and friendship I encountered from everyone I met, despite the daily pressures and frustrations they felt in such crowded circumstances. In truth, I was unprepared for the people of Japan. In a truly remarkable series of encounters, they proved to be warm, kind, and extraordinarily generous. And this generosity and kindness were given spontaneously, regardless of the personal difficulties an individual or a family might have.

Through the efforts of Japanese friends I was able to be more than just a tourist, and so spent much of my visit staying in private homes. And in addition to my hosts and hostesses, I got to know several other Japanese by participating in various activities with them. The result of these relationships was that I was given the opportunity to see parts of Japan not available to the average tourist.

This set of circumstances created the opportunity to not only observe Japanese culture in a wide variety of settings but also to participate in that culture on a personal level with over two dozen guides and companions from all walks of life. Seeing Japan through this variety of eyes helped to sharpen my own, and enabled me to come to a richer appreciation of the complex, contradictory, and captivating culture that is modern Japan, as well as a deep appreciation for the integrity and strength of character of the Japanese people in the face of severe pressures.

What follows then, although presented in the guise of a journal, is rather a collection of microscopic examinations, as if the camera passed over the country and periodically stopped to focus on a particular place at a particular time. What enhances the observations is that a different filter was used each time, namely the individuals living in that place. And what lends a sense of continuity and comprehensiveness is the fact that the camera lens, the observer, remained constant. That was my role and my pleasure, and I hope that for the reader it will prove to be instructive as well as entertaining.

Names are presented in traditional Japanese order, family name first and given name second. Japanese words, except proper nouns, are printed in italic throughout the text, and the definition or an explanation is given the first few times the word appears.

The term -san appended to a name means Mr. or Mrs. For example, Nagayasu-san simply means Mr. Nagayasu, or Mrs. Nagayasu, depending on with whom one is speaking. Japanese vowels have the same sounds as in Italian, and Japanese words are generally pronounced with no emphasis on any particular syllable. Double vowels do not mean a change in the sound, but rather simply a stretched syllable, two beats instead of one. Thus "oo" is like the sound "oh", not "loose."

Following custom, Tokyo and Kyoto are presented without the long vowel, and both are pronounced in English as if they were only two-syllable words. A glossary is appended.

"This can't be," I said to myself. Maybe it was the long flight, but entering Narita airport from the plane's walkway was a major disappointment. Where were the bright colors, the art and sculpture? Where was the interesting architecture? For that matter, where was a moving walkway? This main entrance to Japan was among the bleakest and least attractive airports I had ever seen, giving absolutely no hint of the country's beauty, mystery, or even its vaunted technological prowess. I was so disappointed, and I did not yet know simply to say, "daijoobu."

I had been studying intensely about Japan for three years, longing for the opportunity to see it first hand. I'd attended the Japan Studies Institute run by Alex Coox at San Diego State University, and it had lit a fire for me. I became completely enamored of this ancient country--its history, culture, art, and its ways. I was only half joking when I told my students at Rhode Island College that I was a fraud, teaching a course I developed about Japan without having been there.

Finally, all my efforts and contacts paid off when I was asked to conduct a survey for the Japan Center for International Exchange. The fee for the work enabled me to take this trip. I had hoped to stay for five weeks, but this was a week prior to my originally planned arrival. At a conference a few years earlier, Professor Nagayasu Yukimasa of Reitaku University suggested I visit his campus. When I eventually got the opportunity to go to Japan, I contacted him and he suggested I leave a week early, stay at the campus hotel, and give a few lectures. I happily added the week to the beginning of my trip.

Now, however, in the middle of this uninspiring airport, I wondered if perhaps I had been expecting too much. Fortunately, I didn't have much time to dwell on it. Right in front of me stood a round-faced man holding a small cardboard with my name on it. Ohno Masahide was a colleague of Nagayasu-san. He drove me to the Reitaku campus in Kashiwa, about an hour and a half outside Tokyo and the same distance from the airport. Ohno-san was to be my guide and interpreter for the duration of my stay at the university, a responsibility he bore with exceptional patience, humor, and grace. The disappointment of the airport disappeared almost immediately, erased by Ohno-san's cheerfulness.

He was an extremely gentle and good humored man. During the entire week, he was rarely without a smile on his face, and always seemed to enjoy whatever we were doing, especially when he was introducing the gaijin--foreigner--to a new culinary treat or some other aspect of Japanese culture, like the biographies and styles of the various sumo wrestlers we watched during the Emperor's Cup matches that week. (It was fun for me, too, to see how excited he got when the grand champion Akebono won a three-way tie on the last day to take the cup.)

That first night, he settled me in my western-style room and discovered my TV did not have bi-lingual cable. "Daijoobu," he said, "You probably won't have time for it anyway." It was my first experience with the word, and I asked him what it meant. "It means 'no problem' or 'it's ok,' and you will hear it a lot, Rori-san" he said, in what proved to be a prophetic comment. He made arrangements for my breakfast, and then I was on my own, finally in Japan. It had been a long day of travel, and I had no trouble getting to sleep.

Waking at dawn, I was very excited. Actually, this was my usual waking hour, a habit engendered by years of birding. I quickly showered, grabbed my binoculars and new Birds of Japan guide and left the room to see if I could find a few new species. Down one flight to the lobby I made an interesting discovery--the hotel was locked. In the back I found an exit door with a push-button lock in the handle, so I was able to open the door, push the button to relock it, and pull it to behind me. At least I wouldn't feel guilty about leaving the building and its occupants unprotected, although from what I wasn't sure. After all, this wasn't New York City.

My first discovery was a surprise, something I hadn't even considered--so many of the flowers and shrubs were the same as those in the States, although the blosssom timing seemed a bit off; the rhododendron and azaleas had finished, but the mountain laurel was still in bloom, a bit later than back home, and the hydrangias were in full bloom, a bit earlier. No matter, it was nice to see them. To my delight, a favorite from our own garden, tritonia, or montbretia, were to be seen everywhere. The dark green sword shaped leaves, like iris, about twenty inches tall, and the tiny, brilliant orange florets, trumpet shaped and growing in spikes from the center of the leaf, were beautiful, and looked like old friends. It was a nice surprise.

There was an unusual variety of ivy I had never seen, with leaves up to ten inches wide growing about a foot to a foot and a half high, a striking ground cover. These nearly filled the median of the main road through the campus. A macadam walkway meandered alongside, with occasional flowering shrubs to give spots of color.

It was still the rainy season, so there was no real sunrise. The day had begun overcast, with an occasional fine drizzle. To my wonder, I didn't mind it at all. "Daijoobu," I said to myself. I was in Japan, and it didn't matter what the weather was like. This sentiment was to be sorely tested before I left the country, but it actually held up, I think to my credit.

As for birds, the thing that struck me right away was the number of crows, but not the ones we see in the states. These were carrion crows -hashiboso-garasu -and jungle crows - hashibuto-garasu, both a bit larger than our common crow, but not as large as a raven. As familiar as the crow was the much smaller tree sparrow--suzume. It resembles our house sparrow, and is also a member of the finch family and not a true sparrow. This is the most common bird in Japan. Another somewhat familiar face belonged to the bird comparable to our mourning dove, the rufous turtle dove--kiji-bato.

The best two of the morning, though, came last. The first was the brown-eared bulbul-hiyodori. A raucus character, I heard him long before I saw him. In fact, it took a while to track him down as I didn't want to be accused of trampling on the grounds and hospitality of my hosts. Finally, though, one of them popped out in the open for me to have a good look. The outline is a lot like our robin, but it sits more erect, like a kingbird. The head is striking, looking like it just came from the beauty parlour where it got a frosting. The back is browninsh and the underside of the wings is beautiful, with brown, cream, and tan colors contrasting with the whitish spotted breast and belly. Good bird!

The other good bird was the azure-winged magpie--onaga. A striking bird, it has a black cap, as if someone dunked it in an inkwell, and its neck, upper back and belly are gray. The wings and tail, however, are like our blue jay in coloring, except that the tail is much longer and tipped with white. A handsome bird, and I was quite pleased to have made his or her acquaintance.

I went back to the hotel for an 8 o'clock breakfast with Ohno-san and Nagayasu-san. When I entered the front door, by then unlocked, I got a rather surprised look from the manager behind the desk. He hadn't seen me go out, and was a bit puzzled. I didn't attempt to explain.

My hosts were there, and we went in to breakfast. Our table was set for western-style food, unlike some of the other tables which had the tell-tale hashi--chopsticks. I decided that this would be the last, but it actually turned out to be the penultimate, western-style breakfast I would order during my six-week stay.

Nagayasu-san gave me the schedule for the three lectures I was to give, and asked what I would like to do with the rest of the time. I said I'd like to visit as many small businessmen as I could, my major research interest being the ethical relationships between management and suppliers and management and employees. Since a lot of information is available on large corporations, I thought I'd spend my time dealing with owner-managers to get a different perspective.

He instructed Ohno-san to make arrangements, and then told us that we would be accompanying his family on an outing that afternoon. Breakfast over, he said he'd be back at noon. After they left, I stopped at the front desk to put in my order for wa-shoku--Japanese food -for breakfast the next day.

At noon, both Nagayasu-san and Ohno-san drove up. It was immediately clear that Nagayasu-san was not the typical Japanese. Actually, I never found a "typical" Japanese--they are as different from each other as are Americans. There are, however, some characteristics shared by many, and it was these that he seemed deliberately to violate. Very few Japanese men wear hats; he was sporting a red plaid tam-o-shanter. He was dressed in a white short sleeved sport shirt, and brown plaid slacks with black loafers. No socks. Very few Japanese men have facial hair; he wore a fu manchu mustache. Most Japanese men seem controlled, rarely showing emotion; he had a glint in his eye, radiating energy and humor. The rest of us paled in comparison. With him was his wife, Sachiko, a charming woman who was as gracious and quiet as Nagayasu-san was exuberant. Completing the family were two daughters, Mikako and Takoko.

Ohno-san motioned me into his car and we followed the Nagayasu's out into the country, heading toward the Pacific, northeast of Tokyo. We were in part of the great Kantoo plain, a major agricultural area in Japan, irrigated by three great rivers, the Tonegawa, the Tamagawa, and the Arakawa. The countryside was filled with rice paddies. What was striking to me was their beautiful pale-green color, and the way the soft leaves waved in the breeze giving the appearance of the sea. In sharp and beautiful contrast were the ubiquitous ko-sagi--little egret--with its pure white feathers, and the occasional ama-sagi--cattle egret--with its pure white body and wings topped by its bright orange head and neck. There seemed to be at least one egret for each section of the field, either sitting absolutely still or wading in stately manner with measured steps until the beak darted down into the water to spear a small fish. They appeared to be as competant as the U.S. variety, rarely missing.

We drove for about an hour and finally stopped at a non-descript two-story house at the edge of a rice paddy. There didn't seem to be a sign anywhere, but it was a restaurant. Nagayasu san said it was a very good one. We entered and made our way back alongside the bar until we reached an unoccupied alcove reserved for us. We removed shoes, stepped up to the main floor, and sat on cushions around the low table. This was my first eating adventure.

Fortunately for me, Nagayasu-san's eldest daughter, Mikako, was seated next to me. She is a junior at the University of London and speaks English better than the others. She interpreted for me and explained the different dishes. The first was on the table when we arrived, and I dug right in. They were salty and crunchy, like nuts, so I asked what kind. They were dried eel bones, and I liked them a lot.

Next was a broiled unagi--eel--and it too was delicious, flaky and flavorful. It did not taste like chicken. This was followed in rapid order by carp soup; baby crayfish, which looked and tasted like miniature lobster; very small, about inch and a half, salty, whole fish; rice; and beer. I loved it all. My hosts were very pleased and surprised that I did, and they also were surprised at my ability to use hashi. Most Japanese think foreigners cannot use chopsticks, and they also think that one has to be Japanese to like Japanese food. In some ways, they are remarkably unaware of the outside world. I explained my years in New York City and frequent lunches in Chinatown.

Without realizing it, I had settled on a policy I was to maintain during the rest of my trip. I never asked what I was being served until after I had tasted it. The result was happy, I truly enjoyed nearly everything I ate, and I was able to please all of my hosts and hostesses with the obvious pleasure I got from eating whatever they had prepared or purchased.

After the meal we set out for Kashima-jingu, a Shinto shrine which is one of the Tokoku Sansha, "Three Great Shrines of Eastern Kingdom." It is also one of the four major shrines in all of Japan associated with the famous Fujiwara family, the guardians of the throne, and often the power behind the throne, during the Heian period (794-1185). I didn't know it then, but Kashima would come to mean something special to me because of its association with the seventeenth century poet, Bashoo, who stopped here on the first of his famous walks around Japan. The Fujiwara and I would cross paths again, too, in another memorable experience also connected to Bashoo.

>BR> Kashima-jingu was my first shrine, and I was impressed. The predominant color at shrines is vermillion, the brilliant orange-red of the rising sun. Invariably, it colors the torii--gate--which marks the entrance. These torii resemble the Greek letter pi, and consist of two posts, often large tree trunks, and two crosspieces at the top. They differ from the much more elaborate, and often much larger, entrances to Buddhist temples. There, instead of posts, the supports of the torii are small building-like structures which house carved statues of the guardians of the temple, visible through an open wall in the front, and the connecting crosspiece at the top is actually a roof spanning the two buildings. Much of the wood in these Buddhist structures is elaborately carved, unlike the pure simplicity of the Shinto torii.

Kashima-jingu is Shinto and so has the simpler torii, with the guardians standing alone some distance inside the entrance. After passing them, which are often statues of mythical animals, there is a small covered well-like structure where the visitor purifies him- or herself. Often spring fed, there is a large basin of water with long-handled cups available for the visitor to pour water over the hands, symbolizing the cleansing of the outside of the body, and then from the cleansed hand taking water into the mouth to rinse and thus symbolically cleanse the inside of the body.

At a temple, this would be replaced by a large stone basin, with a wooden roof, filled with sand into which visitors place burning incense sticks, purchased at the site. The visitor then wafts the smoke toward the body, purifying the outside, and inhales, purifying the inside.

Beyond the purifying water, or incense burner, will be the major structures: a main hall, a separate praying hall, and perhaps a few other smaller buildings. The major difference between the main hall of a shrine and that of a temple is that the Shinto hall will be simpler in construction, and will not have as intricate and beautiful an altar as will a temple. Of course, there will be statues of Buddhas at the temple as well.

Another characteristic differentiating the two is that a shrine will have very large trees preserved on the grounds, and the largest will have special rope girding them with pieces of special paper hanging from the rope. This signifies the sanctity of the tree, and reflects the major difference in the two religions: Shinto is the native religion of Japan, closely associated with the Emperor, and, in somewhat of an oversimplification, is pantheistic. Buddhism, introduced from the mainland, is concerned with an individual's attempt to live a good life, with stress placed on one's relation to others in the family and society. What sets the Japanese apart from many is that they have no problems dealing with both. In fact, if one adds the number of Japanese who claim to be Buddhist to those who claim to practice Shinto, the total exceeds the current population. Students, for example, will go to several temples and several shrines to pray for good performance on an exam, and their mother will do the same on their behalf.

At Kashima-jungu there were some magnificent trees, huge cryptomeria-- Japanese cedars--rising over a hundred feet with trunks more than ten feet in diameter. It resembled a redwood forest. The shrine dates from the early seventeenth century and its museum has pottery, weapons, and other artifacts of that period.

The shrine is situated on the Tonegawa--Tone river--the second longest in Japan, and the one on which the next shrine we visited is also situated. If we had known that, it might have made our afternoon a little easier. As it turned out, we could not find the second shrine and had to call our dinner host, Inouya-san, who drove to meet us and lead us there. Daijoobu.

Katori-jingu predates Kashima, but its actual origin is not known. The present buildings were rebuilt in 1700. It is located in the town of Sawara, through which the Tonegawa runs, and where it is divided into canals over which the town's merchants and farmers shipped their wares and received goods. We were going to see those canals later on in the evening.

The shrine has an impressive museum devoted to military articles. It was begun by one of the early Tokugawa shoguns--supreme commanders--as the shrine was supposed to have special meaning for samurai warriors. As a result, many of the daimyo--lords--who visited would leave a sword, a knife, a shield or helmet, etc.

One of the more interesting articles was the longest Japanese sword made. The blade was over eight feet long, and I thought it was a naginata, the weapon of footsoldiers and also of samurai women. Nagayasu-san pointed out that while the naginata were as long overall, they were mostly a long handle , the blade itself only about two feet long. This one was all blade, and none of us could imagine how anyone would be able to lift it much less fight with it.

Sachiko and her daughters were not really too interested in the military museum, but they did seem to appreciate the rest of what we had seen, and they definitely liked to take photographs. Mikako periodically checked to make sure I was not overwhelmed by her father's enthusiasm.

One of the most interesting incidents was when Nagayasu-san managed to get a priest to explain to us about a recent event. It seems that plans had been made to erect a new library on the grounds, and there was a debate over where to situate it. The priest brought us behind the museum building and showed us where five immense cryptomeria had been cut down. He said the debate about felling them had gone on for six months, since trees are sacred in Shinto. The priests became convinced when an expert was able to tell them that the trees had begun to rot inside, and then he took us over to where the stumps were and we could see that in all five the pith was gone. Walking on them, though, was very moving. They had been cut at ground level so that they looked like giant stepping stones. But we could see the other trees nearby, and so could imagine what these five must have looked like. Loving nature as I do I could empathize with their dilemma, and with their feelings about the final decision. But we knew where the new library would be constructed.

After we had finished being tourists, Mikako came with Ohno-san and me and told us what the rest of the day had in store. The man who had come to lead us to the shrine lived in Sawara, and we were headed to his house for dinner. After eating, we were going to walk into town to participate in the annual matsuri--festival. These take place all over Japan, honoring different things at different times during the year. In Sawara, July 10-12 was the date for Gion Matsuri, a festival honoring the deity Gozu Tenno, a god of good health.

Arriving at Inouya-san's house, the Japanese space problem came alive in our attempts to park the cars. Inouya-san's car filled his driveway. The street was just wide enough for two cars. Three neighbors had to come out to rearrange their cars so that we could park the two visiting vehicles. It resembled the disarray of bumper cars at a carnival, without the contact, but it was over in less than five minutes, with much laughter and good will, and no sense of irritation or that anything special had been done. Daijoobu.

Inside the house I learned another aspect of Japanese life. Homes are not shown to guests as they are in America; there is no house tour. We were ushered in by Inouya-san and his wife and seated in the first room we came to. I never saw what was beyond that room, save for the toilet which was directly across the hall from where we sat around the low table and had dinner.

Again, it was delicious, with at least six different foods all presented beautifully in separate lacquered bowls, plus several large trays of sushi--small clumps of vinegared rice with something stuffed inside and the whole thing wrapped in dried seaweed. The stuffing could be nearly anything, such as egg, celery, small bits of beef, olive, or raw fish. I saw these trays in homes all over Japan. They are prepared by a local restaurant, and delivered. The wife will return them the next day. Once again, I ate everything put before me, pleasing, and surprising, my hosts.

Then the fun part began. They explained that each of ten major areas in the town had a float to pull in the parade, and the residents of each area wore special happi--short cotton robes -and hachimaki--a cotton cloth tied around the forehead. Both bore the same design, which was different for each neighborhood. They informed me that even though I was a foreigner I could wear the festival garb and participate in the matsuri if I wanted to. I'm not sure where or when it started, but it probably was right then at the Inouya's; I came to be considered, and to refer to myself as, the henna gaijin--strange foreigner. The term henna gaijin can have overtones of unpleasantness, what we might term the "ugly American," so actually it was somewhat flattering that they felt comfortable enough with me to use it in jest. From then on, I used it myself as a way to disarm strangers. It worked quite well, always getting a laugh, and seeming to put people at ease.

I said that I did want to participate in the matsuri, so they decked me out in happi and hachimaki and off we went. I was immensely pleased to be allowed to take part, and must admit I also enjoyed the surprised looks I got as we made our way into town to "our" float.

The word float is a misnomer. The wheels resembled mill-stones, about thirty-six inches in diameter, and about eight inches thick. Somehow, a facing of carved wood had been adhered to the outside to match the rest of the float. The float itself was carriage like, resembling an eight foot cube. It was made of thick dark wood, intricately carved over every bit of its surface. Four musicians rode inside, and four children rode on top with wooden rakes to hold up telephone and power lines as the float passed underneath while it navigated the streets. Each one weighed up to four tons!

Also on top was the object identifying each neighborhood. Ours was the head of a woman. Others were samurai, daimyos--regional lords--mythical characters, or animals. One was a beautiful hawk, accurate in its markings down to the underfeathers on the wings. Its head rose about six feet above the float, and its tail feathers slanted down about five feet past the rear edge of the float. These truly were beautiful works of craftsmanship.

The floats were maneuvered by two ropes and two poles. The ropes were three inch hawsers long enough for the entire neighborhood to hold on, to pull along level ground, and to act as a brake when the float went down hill. They also helped turn the float by holding fast on one side and slacking off on the other to the commands of the leader. When the float was level or had to go uphill, all would pull in unison to the shout "Wa-shoi! Wa-shoi!" It was truly delightful to see how the neighborhood "adopted" the gaijin and got so much pleasure when he was able to shout along correctly with them. Mikako saw to it that I manned the ropes at different places, giving several of her friends the opportunity to have their pictures taken pulling alongside the henna gaijin. She was like her father, a bundle of energy and quick to laugh. After a few minutes in one spot, she would simply grab my hand and pull me along to the next where she would chatter away with the people on the rope, holding on to me with one hand and moving them with the other to make space for me. Then she'd place my hand on the rope, "Pull, neh!" So I pulled, "Wa-shoi! Wa-shoi!"

Holding on is an important concept at these matsuri. They reminded me of the New York Thanksgiving Day parade, except with the same number of people squeezed into half the space. The crowds were crushing, like subways at rush hour. It was good that Mikako held my hand, for I might still be there had she not. I still do not understand why children do not get lost or hurt, but I never heard of any such incident. Rather, I have never seen such order amidst chaos, and such displays of good humor and genuine enjoyment. Crushed against someone, daijoobu. A foot stepped on, daijoobu. It was infectious.

At the front of the float, several of the tallest and strongest handled ten foot long poles, about four inches in diameter. These were inserted between the front lower edge of the float and the front axle. By pressing upward on the poles, the weight of the float forced the bottom of the poles into the pavement, acting as a brake, or as a steering mechanism when one pole was levered and pushers applied pressure to the other side.

It was remarkable to see the degree of cooperation that had developed. On the surface, it looked like bedlam. Actually, these huge and heavy objects were never out of control, and the entire parade moved with a precision hard to imagine. And it was very interesting to see that nearly every youngster in the crowd was allowed to participate at some point along the way. All the children were given the opportunity to begin to learn, space made for them alongside the hawser and their hands placed on it.

The route the parade took was not easy. It went up inclines and down, and it made several right angle turns. One was a turn from going up to going down, and I'm still not sure how control was maintained. Fortunately, most of the route was over streets that were at least two cars wide. But the end of the route was alongside one of the canals, and since the canals were the main transportation routes, the streets on either side were not much wider than the floats.

The combination of streets and canals, however, were quite beautiful. The canal was about ten feet below the surface of the street, the sides lined with cut stone. At major intersections, beautiful stone bridges spanned the canal, and at the intersection of the other sidestreets there were stone stairs from the street to a short wharf at the water. These were where the merchants' goods were loaded and unloaded. At the edge of the main part of town, there were larger loading areas.

Lanterns along the way reflected off the water and lit the streets and the beautiful cherry trees which lined the canal. The shops along each side were in buildings dating from the Edo period, probably early eighteenth century, with exposed wooden beams and stucco like finishing. It was quite a beautiful sight.

Sawara is also the birthplace of Ino Tadataka, one of Japan's noted cartographers. After the parade was over, we all went to the local museum where some of his early maps and instruments were on display. It was there that Sachiko purchased for me my first telephone card and my first Tokyo subway card. These were in addition to a large poster displaying all of the floats in the parade. This was my introduction to the spontaneous generosity of the Japanese. For the next six weeks I was the beneficiary of a rather remarkable degree of gift giving.

Almost on cue, we all realized we were pretty tired. We left the museum and made our way back to the Inouya's house where delicious fresh fruit was waiting for us at the table. It hit the spot. I was disappointed that I had to return the happi, but they made a present of the hachimaki, which became part of my "uniform" as I hiked around the country. While we were eating and recounting our evening, Nagayasu-san said, "Rori-san, you enjoy yourself so much you should move to Japan." Flippantly, and impolitely, I responded, "Is that a job-offer, Nagayasu-san?" "No," he replied, "only an observation." I laughed and the conversation went back to our evening, but I realized my mistake. The Japanese are not given to flippancy, nor are they facile with word-play in English. I had been impolite, but Nagayasu-san and everyone else were kind enough to pass over it. After all, I was only a henna gaijin.

Then it was time to go. We all moved out to the street where the Inouya's lined up and waved and bowed to us until we turned the corner down the street. This is how the Japanese say goodby. I termed it "waving 'til out of sight." The host family accompanies the guests out into the street, or into the hall if in an apartment, and they smile and bow and wave as they exclaim "Sayonara"--goodby, "Ja mata"--see you again, "Ja ato de"--see you later, "Irasshaimasu"--thank you for coming, "Arigato"--thank you, all at the same time. This continues until you cannot distinguish features or simply can no longer see each other--your car turns a corner, or the elevator doors close. Thus, the very last image of your friends is their smiling faces as opposed to retreating backs. It's a nice gesture.

On the way back, I realized that I could not have imagined a better introduction to Japan, its people and its culture. When I got to the campus hotel, I made sure I stood at the entrance smiling and bowing and waving until Ohno-san had driven out of sight. I was very tired but, daijoobu, it didn't matter. I had no trouble falling asleep.